


gas n' go

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 09:50:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16830220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Prompt: “I have been driving for the last 5 hours and all I want is some god damn beef jerky, so GET YOUR HAND OFF THE LAST PACKAGE ON THE SHELF YOU MAY BE HANDSOME STRANGER, BUT NO ONE IS STANDING IN BETWEEN ME AND THAT SALTY SNACK”





	gas n' go

You have been driving for hours, so it’s not your fault that you’re a little cranky. You haven’t eaten in hours _or_ slept in days. So you freaked out a little bit when you dropped out of college. It’s fine, it probably happens to people all the time. You’re sure you’re not the first person to just pack up everything they own, get in their car, and drive with absolutely no destination in mind.

So, that’s why you’re pulling into the first gas station you see, your stomach grumbling. Parking your car in an empty spot, you walk inside, rubbing a hand over your face as your exhaustion hits you like a freight train. You frown, thinking you should probably find a hotel soon or you’re going to be in trouble.

You head for the snacks, opting for convenience instead of a warm meal, and it takes you a second in your tired state to realize that there’s only one package of beef jerky left, and it’s currently in the hand of a man who’s scanning the chips on the other side of the aisle, his brow furrowed.

You think you must let out an involuntary noise of discontent, because he looks up at you for a brief second, looking away when he sees you staring at the empty shelf.

“Um,” you say, cursing yourself. _Way to sound smart_. “This is going to sound weird, but do you have your heart absolutely set on eating that?” You ask him, pointing at the package in his hand.

“Um.” He echoes back, his face the picture of confusion. “Kind of, that’s sort of why I grabbed it off the shelf.”

_Great_ , you think. _He’s a smartass_.

“Okay, but _how_ important is it to you?”

He barks out a laugh, looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you trying to talk me out of buying this?”

You smile in what you hope is a convincing manner. “I’ve been driving for five hours and I’m starving.”

He smirks. “I’ve been driving for eight hours, and I’m hungry too, _plus_ I’ve got my brother to feed. He’s 6’4”, so he needs it more than you.” He snarks, and you want to punch him right in his attractive face.

“All right, look. I’ve got…” you fumble around your purse, looking for your wallet. “… three dollars.”

He looks taken aback for a minute before he recovers. “You’re serious? I don’t want your money.”

“Well, I want that beef jerky, so.” You tell him, your arms falling to your sides. You realize that you’re being ridiculous, but you’re not really that worried about it. It’s the hunger, you think.

“I’m not taking your money, and I’m going to eat this. Have a good day.” He says, and starts to saunter up to the cash register, but you run around him to block his way, a hand on his chest.

He stops short of running you over, and looks down at your hand with a raised eyebrow.

“What if I buy you something else?” You bargain, and the corner of his mouth tilts up in a half smile.

“Lady, why don’t _you_ buy something else? I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Try the gas station a couple miles down the road. They’ve always got good snacks.”

He just walks right around you, up to the cashier, and when the bell over the door signals that he’s gone, you start to seriously wonder about the state of your life. Bargaining with strangers in the EZ-Mart… honestly.

You shake your head at yourself and grab a few other snacks before getting back in the car. You need to find somewhere to sleep.

.

.

.

You had seriously underestimated how much stuff you crammed into your car when you left college - boxes upon boxes are in your back seat, and you’re trying to figure out which boxes need to come inside the motel room with you, and which stuff you probably wouldn’t care if they were stolen out of your car in the middle of the night.

After the third trip to the car, you’re sweating a little, the summer sun beating down on you.

“Moving in?” A voice asks, and you jump, not having heard any footsteps at all. When you turn around, you almost groan, because _of course_ it’s Cute Guy From The Gas Station. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Are you stalking me?”

“You caught me,” he deadpans. “My heart was all aflutter when you tried to bribe me for snacks.”

You blush, remembering how ridiculous you had sounded.

“Do you need any help?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks at you, arms crossed in front of his chest. You feel a pang of attraction run through you, and you look away for a second, trying to get yourself under control.

“I’ve got it. Thanks, though.”

He looks like he’s making a decision, and then he says, “I’m in 204, a couple doors down. If you need any help, feel free to knock.”

He leaves you feeling off balance with a smile and a wave, and you watch him and his broad shoulders walk down the small sidewalk to his room.

.

.

.

You wake up some time in the middle of the night with a jolt, hearing loud voices outside. Your first instinct is to get in your car and leave - you’ve heard rumors about these types of motels and really have no desire to be on the evening news because you’ve been murdered.

As you listen more carefully, you realize you recognize one of the voices, and your curiosity gets the better of you. Tiptoeing to the window, you push back the curtain slightly and can see him leaning against a sleek black car a few spots down from your own, his hand pressed to his stomach.

Even from a distance you can tell he’s bleeding, and your heart starts to pound. Before you can think about what you’re doing, you’re out the door, pulling a hoodie over your head.

The taller guy with him - his brother, you think - looks up at you. “You should go back inside.”

“He’s bleeding,” you say dumbly. Looking back at Cute Guy From The Gas Station, “You’re bleeding.”

He chuckles, and then winces. “I am? Hadn’t noticed.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Dog attack.”

“Fell down some stairs.”

Both brothers speak at once, and you look back and forth between them, unamused. “Okay. Tell me, don’t tell me, I don’t care. Do you need help?”

The taller one hesitates, but your new friend interrupts. “She’s harmless. Hopefully.”

His brother looks skeptical, but he seems to weigh his options. “Okay, sure. That’s– can you help him get inside? I need to… I need to go finish up something.” He looks back at his brother. “Dean? That okay?”

_Dean_. You look back at him and his eyes are a little unfocused, but he shrugs. “Not like I have many other options, huh?”

“Okay.” You say. “Don’t worry, I took a first aid course, like… five years ago.”

Dean’s face brightens with a sharp laugh. “Don’t worry, she says!”

“Dean,” his brother says sharply, “let her help you get inside before you pass out. I can’t let you die when you still owe me a hundred bucks.”

“That’s because you _cheated_ , Sammy–”

“No offense,” you interrupt, “and I really hate to break up this brotherly love, but can we get a move on before someone else comes out here?”

“She’s smart. Listen to her.” Sammy – Sam? You don’t know – says, with a pointed look at Dean.

He helps you get his brother inside their room before he takes off, pressing a first aid kit into your hands.

You’re left there feeling a little helpless and more than a little confused, but you sit down on the edge of the bed next to Dean, anyway. Tentatively, you reach out, moving his hand. He jumps a little at the touch of your hand, but lets you do it, eyeing you warily.

“What do you think? Am I going to live?”

You snort. “You’re pretty nonchalant for a guy who got attacked by a dog and then fell down some stairs.”

He grins, looking down sheepishly. “Don’t suppose you believe either of those things, huh? You seem pretty smart.”

“I don’t know about that. I just dropped out of college and have no idea what I’m doing with my life, but sure.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Glad you’re here to give me stitches, then.”

Your eyes snap up to his. “Stitches? You didn’t say anything about stitches.”

“Kid. Look at me.” He gestures towards his abdomen. “Look,” he says, gentle, “it’ll be fine. I’ll talk you through the entire thing. Well, at least until I pass out. Then you’re on your own.”

You glare at him.

“Sorry,” he says, laughing. “Not funny. Got it.”

He manages to get his shirt off while gritting his teeth, and directs you to the supplies in the first aid kit that he’ll need. He also instructs you to grab his whiskey out of his bag, and before you can pour it on his stomach, he takes a swig, suggesting you do the same.

“You’re really not going to tell me how this happened, are you.” You ask mildly as you begin stitching. Your hands are a little shaky, but you try not to think about the fact that you’re doing stitches on a _person_.

Once you disassociate, it’s easier. Plus, Dean distracts you. “You wouldn’t believe me.” He says, and you roll your eyes.

“So mysterious.”

“Just make sure I don’t bleed out, doc.” He snarks back, and the both of you fall silent for a few minutes, you concentrating, and him sucking in ragged breaths whenever the needle catches. You frown, apologizing, and he waves you off.

“You’re doing great. I–” He stops, wincing, but then keeps talking. “I should be thanking you. You didn’t have to come outside.”

“You told me to ask you if I needed anything. Figured it should be a two way street.” You say, shrugging.

“Still.”

“Don’t worry about it. I– I guess I have a sympathy complex, or something. I wasn’t going to leave you guys out there if you needed help.”

He smiles at you, his eyes starting to get hooded and you can tell he’s fighting to stay awake. “I never told you my name.” He says quietly.

“Your brother did.” You point out, and then, feeling courageous, “I was just going to keep calling you Cute Guy From The Gas Station, though.”

The smile he sends your way after that is truly breathtaking, and you have to look away, because _Jesus_ , it’s like looking into the fucking sun. “Do I get to know your name?” He asks, “Or do I need to come up with a nickname for you, too?”

You blush, finishing up the stitches. “You’re all set.” You say. You decide to throw caution to the wind and tell him your name, and when he repeats it quietly, you feel it in the pit of your stomach.

“Not that you aren’t wonderful company, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to fall asleep in a few seconds.” He mumbles, head lolling on his shoulders. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply, and finish your job. When you look back up a few minutes later, he’s asleep.

.

.

.

Sam came back an hour or so later, and thanked you profusely for looking after his brother. He’s suspiciously covered in dirt and grime, but you don’t say anything. These dudes could be serial killers, for all you know.

You don’t think they are, though. There’s a kindness to them both that you know wouldn’t be there if they were sociopaths.

You head back to your motel room before Dean wakes up, and you feel stupid because you want to leave a note or something. It’s dumb, and you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t have all these feelings about a guy you literally just met.

You pretty much collapse into bed, and you’re asleep before your head even hits the pillow.

In the morning, you’re woken up by knocking on your door, and you’re somehow not surprised to see Dean there when you open the door cautiously, looking a little pale, but otherwise no worse for the wear.

“Hey.” He says, smiling softly at you. Your heart rate picks up.

“Hi. Feeling okay?”

“Pretty good, all things considered.” He rocks back on his heels. “I wanted to thank you.”

“You don’t have to–”

“Yes I do. You didn’t have to do that. You didn’t have to do any of it, but you did, and you made me laugh, and…” He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyway. I’ve got something for you as a token of my undying appreciation.”

He reaches behind him and whips out a packet of beef jerky, and you can’t help it, you grin at him.

“I can’t believe…”

“It’s all yours, sweetheart.” He says, and your heart jumps at the term of endearment. “I think you earned it.”

“You’re an asshole.” You tell him, but you’re still beaming at him.

He grins right back. “Yeah, well. Listen, we’re going to get going. I just wanted to say thanks, really.”

“You’re welcome.” You reply quietly, looking down.

“I’ll see you around, I guess.” He says, hesitating, before turning to walk back in the direction of his car.

“Dean?” You call out, deciding that while you’re already making possibly life-changing decisions, you might as well do something a little crazy.

He stops, turning around with a questioning look on his face, and you stride towards him, your hands going to his cheeks to pull his mouth down to yours. He doesn’t miss a beat, hands falling to your waist and keeping you both from stumbling as you kiss him, hard. He makes a sort of strangled noise into your mouth but holds you tighter, not letting an inch of space get between you.

When you break apart, he looks a little dazed, and you can only imagine how you must look.

“For the road,” you say breathlessly, and he grins at you.

“You’re crazy, you know that?”

You laugh, embarrassed, but he tilts your mouth back up and kisses you again, a deep kiss that has your toes curling in your shoes as you match him breath for breath.

After, you watch him pull out of the parking lot, waving at Sam in the passenger seat, a piece of paper with a scribbled phone number on it burning a hole in your pocket, a plastic bag of gas station snacks in the other hand.

Dropping out of college is turning out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.


End file.
